CHAPTER XII
THE END OF THE INTERREGNUM
THE Grafton children stood in a row, watching their father and Barbara establish David in the big Morris chair, on the occasion of his first trip downstairs. Joy and awe were struggling for supremacy in their hearts, but were carefully concealed after the fashion of young America.
“Well, David,” said Jack, jocularly, “you look just exactly like a collapsed balloon. Remember how nice and round you used to be? Now, hurry up and get there again. It was becoming.”
“He reminds me of the pictures of the famine-sufferers in India,” remarked Gassy. “How their ribs did stick out, and how funny their hands were,—like claws.”
“David looks to me like the sweetest small boy ever made,” said Barbara, quietly, as she bent down to kiss the pale lips of the little fellow, and tucked the afghan around him more closely.
“Puzzle,—find David!” called Jack. And indeed, the child seemed lost in the huge chair, his wasted little face wearing a faint smile of contentment at being the centre of so much attention.
“If you children continue to talk so loudly, you will have to leave,” said Dr. Grafton, as he prepared to depart. “Barbara, you will see that David has all the quiet he needs, of course.”
The Kid raised himself from the floor, where he had been wriggling in the imaginary likeness of a boa constrictor.
“Everybody talks about David,” he said jealously. “Aren’t I the baby any more?”
“You’ll always be a baby,” consoled Jack; “a great big baby, even when you are as old as I am. So don’t worry.”
Gassy laughed, and the Kid looked puzzled. “Babies always cry,” he said reflectively.
“Yes?” said Jack.
“Then you must be a baby too,” added the Kid, with triumph, “’cause I saw you cry when we first saw David. I didn’t cry at all.”
“No, you young sinner,” returned his elder brother. “You’ve made a picnic of the whole thing. I’ll bet a cookie you’ve had a good half of every bit of food that has been sent to David. Hasn’t he, Barbara?”
“People have been very kind,” said his sister, disregarding his question. “But really, if Miss Bates brings another installment of preserved plums, I don’t know what I shall do. David can’t eat them, and I’ve explained it to her; but she insists that they are the best things possible for him, and brings them every other day, with unvarying regularity.”
“Let them come,” said Jack, “and Charles and I will advance to the onslaught, and deliver David from the attacks of the enemy. Plums, chicken-broth—even quail—let them continue to flow in abundantly, and fail to mention to Auburn that David is not an ostrich.”
“I guess Mrs. Willowby understands,” observed Gassy, impersonally. “She asked me if David enjoyed the wine jelly she sent yesterday, and I said I didn’t know, but that Jack said it was the best he had ever tasted.”
“Thunder!” exclaimed Jack, turning very red. “Gassy, you do bear away the palm for unpalatable honesty. Why is it, I wonder, that every really honest person is disagreeable, too?”
“Letters!” said Dr. Grafton, reappearing opportunely. “Two for you, Barbara, one from your mother, marked ‘Personal,’ and the other postmarked New York. David, how would you like to see your mother again?”
The little boy looked up and smiled at his father. “I wish she’d come,” he said. “She’s never seen me since I was a sufferer from India. I was a balloon when she left.”
“Well, you will soon have a chance to show her how fast you are getting well,” replied the doctor, smiling. “I wrote her the whole story of last month, the other day, since she is so much stronger, and here is her answer. She will be at home at six o’clock this very afternoon.”
The children all exclaimed at once, even Gassy, who threw her arms around Jack’s neck and hugged him, quite forgetting her usual self-repression, and his recent thrust at her honesty.
“Hurray!” cried Jack, joyfully, escaping from Gassy and twirling a small chair in air. “It seems too good to be true.”
Barbara said nothing. She glanced at her father, who returned her look with one of understanding. They were both thinking of the home-coming as it might have been.
“I forget about mother, some,” remarked the Kid. “Was she as nice as Barbara?”
David answered him. “They’re both the same kind,” he said quaintly, “but mother’s mother. That’s all the difference.”
“We must have a house clean and pretty enough for mother to come back to,” said Barbara, smiling at the invalid. “Gassy, you will have to help a little; there will be so much to do. Jack, take care of David for a little while, please.”
“I don’t mind helping,” said Gassy, as they left the room together. “I’d sweep the whole house, if it would bring mother back. I wonder how she’ll think I look, with my hair bobbity. Mercy, Barbara; you dropped one of your letters. Here it is.”
“I’ll open it now,” said Barbara, sitting down on the stairs. “Why, it’s from the Infant.”
The Infant’s letter was short and to the point.
“You haven’t written me or the other girls for three months,” it began; “and I shall punish you. I shan’t tell you that Atalanta is engaged, and that the Sphinx is too, though how it happened, I don’t see. The man must have been able to answer some of her mathematical riddles, or he never could have reached her heart. And I won’t tell you about my summer abroad,—not a word,—nor how Knowledge is going to be a post-grad. at Columbia, and visit me at the end of every week. You don’t deserve a line, Barbara Grafton! But I am writing to tell you that I just heard—no matter how—that you refused the Eastman Scholarship, and to ask you mildly whether you are insane. With all your talent and ability, Babbie, how could you refuse it? Every one always knew that you should have had it in the first place. Now you surely are not going to stay in that little town of yours that you have so often ridiculed. There is only one reason by which I can account for it, and I don’t think you can be in love.”
Barbara laughed aloud, and folded up the letter. “To think that I wanted it so much,” she said aloud, unconsciously. “What if I had not been here this autumn!”
“Hadn’t been here?” repeated Gassy. “Why, Barbara! Did you ever think of leaving us?”
Barbara threw an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave you for anything,” she said.
They had reached the kitchen, and had fallen to work together. “It’s too bad we haven’t a servant,” said Gassy, “though you do cook very well now, Barbara. Only I’d like mother to come home and find a girl in the kitchen.”
“It’s too bad, indeed,” returned Barbara, cheerfully. “But remember how we were helped when David was ill; and think how Mrs. Willowby gave up her own maid to us for so long, and of all that Susan did. I’m so happy over David that I don’t mind cooking nowadays. And you are a nice little assistant, Gassy.”
The nice little assistant glowed with pleasure. “Know why?” she inquired.
“No; why?”
“Hair!” replied Gassy, laconically. “Hair and clothes. You were pretty good to me that dreadful day when the hair went, and you make me look so much nicer. I like you very much, Barbara,”—Gassy never used the word “love,”—“and I don’t think college has hurt you one bit, no matter what Miss Bates says. It’s just as Jack says,—your A. B. stands for A Brick, instead of A Bachelor.”
“Did he say that?” said Barbara, laughing at the unexpected conclusion, as she leaned over and patted the stiff little shoulder near her.
“You’re a dear little sister,” she said. “Who’s that?”
A loud knock had sounded at the door.
“Come in!” called Barbara.
The door opened slowly; a puffing man, carrying a small trunk, entered, and dropped it heavily on the floor. It was the Vegetable Man.
“Why—what—” began Barbara.
The Vegetable Man smiled at her serenely. “She’s comin’,” he said, and disappeared, leaving Barbara and Gassy staring at each other in astonishment.
Suddenly the door reopened, and there appeared the Vegetable Man’s daughter, as untidy and breezy as ever.
“I’ve come back,” she said. “I heerd you was wantin’ help, so I come over. Guess I’ll stay, this time. Shall I hang my hat here?”
“But—your husband—” began Barbara.
“Him? Why, don’t you know?” returned the Vegetable Man’s daughter, serenely. “I didn’t like ’im after we was married. He drank. So I come home.”
“Drank!” cried Gassy, in horror.
The Vegetable Man’s daughter nodded. “Like a fish!” she added. “’Twan’t a day before he began. Stood it two months, I did, an’ then I lit out. Come home, an’ it wasn’t excitin’ enough for me, so when I heerd you was still without, I come over ag’in. Miss Barbara, if you don’t tell me what to git for dinner, there won’t be no time for gittin’.”
Barbara started. “You took me so by surprise, Libbie,” she said, “that I can scarcely think. I’m delighted to have you back, especially since mother is coming home to-day.”
“Want to know!” ejaculated the girl. “Landed right in the middle of excitement, didn’t I?”
“Yes; and we’re going to celebrate with a grand supper,” put in Gassy, thinking it best to break the news at once.
“You bet!” cried the Vegetable Man’s daughter, cheerfully. “Nothing’s too good for your ma. Now, Miss Barbara, what meat? Or do you still go without?”
Barbara hesitated. In that moment’s hesitation there was involved more than the ordering of a dinner. Theory had its last battle with Practicality, and came out with drooping colors. But Dr. Grafton would have been relieved in regard to the stability of Barbara’s sense of humor, if he could have heard the laugh with which she admitted her own defeat. “I will order some steak,” she said.
“It’s too good to be true,” she said joyfully to Gassy, as they left the kitchen. “I declare, I scarcely know where I am, I am so glad. Isn’t it beautiful when things unexpectedly work out right?”
“Glad the Vegetable Man’s daughter’s husband drank?” inquired Gassy.
Barbara laughed again, and did not answer.
The morning flew by as if Father Time had suddenly borrowed the wings of Mercury. Barbara dusted and straightened the rooms, putting everything in immaculate order. Many little duties, which had been disregarded during David’s illness, suddenly came to her recollection, and the girl essayed to finish them all. She resolved that her reign should end in a blaze of glory, and that her mother should see that the Interregnum had not been entirely discreditable to the House of Grafton. Gassy, a willing assistant, performed unwonted miracles in the way of dusting, at the same time keeping up an unending flow of conversation.
They were putting the finishing touches to the living-room, where David still sat, waited upon cheerfully by the Kid, when the doorbell rang vigorously. The door opened without ceremony and a strident voice in the hall called, “Barbara Grafton!”
“It’s Miss Bates!” exclaimed Barbara, in a low tone. “Run and take her into the library, Gassy.”
But it was too late.
“Oh, here you are!” said Miss Bates, appearing in the doorway. “I came right in because I thought you were probably not dressed to answer the bell. Barbara, I brought in some more plums because I know David ought to eat ’em to build him up.”
“I am so sorry,” said Barbara. “But father says they are still too much for him.”
“Your father don’t know, Barbara; no, he don’t. Men never know about such things. Now there ain’t much sugar in ’em—”
“Never mind!” interposed the Kid, courageously. “Never mind, Miss Bates, I’ll eat ’em. Jack says”—
“Hey?” ejaculated the spinster.
“Charles,” warned Barbara, “you—”
“Jack says to let you give ’em and we’ll eat ’em,” continued the Kid, determined to finish his sentence.
Miss Bates glared at him. “Barbara,” she said, “I don’t know why it is, but I get insulted by these children every time I put my nose into this house. Now I don’t want to complain, but I’ve a mind to tell you what Charles did to me last night. I was laying the table for supper, and I’d left the window open for air, and all of a sudden that child’s head was in the window, and he says, ‘Mercy on us, Birdine, is that all you’ve got for supper?’”
The Kid disappeared under the sofa like a whipped dog. Barbara closed her lips tight, to keep from smiling.
“Well, of course,” put in Gassy, “the Kid is always used to plenty of food, you see.”
Miss Bates glared again. “Is that why he wants to eat up my plums?” she inquired. “No, Barbara, I’ll take ’em back, since you won’t let David eat ’em. And I want to tell you now, that I don’t intend to come to this house again under any circumstances, since these children are so rude, till your ma comes home, no matter how long it is!”
“But she’s coming home to-day!” burst from both David and Gassy, in dismayed unison.
Miss Bates gave them a queer look, flashed a disdainful glance at Barbara, and left the house.
“It’s no use to scold you, Charles,” said Barbara, as she extricated the child from his hiding-place. “But I am glad that mother is coming to take the burden of your dreadful speeches. Now see if you can stay good until supper-time.”
She left the room to arrange the details of the feast, and as she passed through the hall, she came upon the letter marked “Personal” which she had left forgotten on the table.
“I declare!” said she, sitting down on the stairs again. “I believe I am going crazy with joy to-day. I have forgotten one thing after another.”
She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did so, stray words caught her eye,—“undoubted talent,”—“unquestionable success,” etc. She turned to the first page and read:—
Dear little Girl,—For you are a little girl to me, and always will be, in spite of your twenty-one years,—I have something to tell you which cannot wait until I reach home. It is also somewhat of a confession, and I am sure that you will absolve me when you have read this.
I wonder if you have realized how very entertaining your letters have been, and what a godsend they were to me in this tedious place. They were so clever that I could not help reading them to a few of the friends whom I have made here. One of them is Hugh S. Black, whom I have often mentioned, you remember, and who has been slowly recovering from an attack of nervous prostration. He grew very much interested in your letters,—so much so, that I had not the heart to refuse to read them. I told him of your desire to write, and of the piles of rejected psychological studies which have been mounting up on your desk. In fact, you told him, yourself, although you were not aware of it. We have often talked you over, and he thinks that you have undoubted talent, and can gain unquestionable success in writing for publication, if you will be willing to attempt the kind of things that lie within your own experience. Mr. Black said the other day, “Your girl has wit, humor, an excellent power of description, the faculty of seeing things as they are, and of describing them from an original point of view. Why won’t she write stories or sketches dealing with every-day life, instead of such nonsense as ‘The Effect of Imagination on the Habits of the Child’?”
This morning, Mr. Black asked me if I would not request you to read over your letters and change them into proper form for a story, which he will be glad to publish serially in his magazine, if the finished product meets with his approval. This is a splendid opportunity for you, little daughter, and I advise you to grasp it.
Are you disappointed to find that your talents do not lie along the psychological paths of lofty, intellectual labor? Does this story of your experiences of one summer seem too trivial for your effort? I think not, my dear, if the change in the tone of your letters can be depended upon for inference. We shall talk this over when I am once more at home, and can relieve my brave, strong girl of the burdens which she has borne for four long months.
There was more in the letter, but Barbara did not read it. She danced about the hall with such abandon that her father opened his office door, and regarded her with amazement.
“Has my housekeeper taken leave of her senses?” he asked affectionately.
“On the contrary,” returned Barbara, saucily, “she has just regained them. Father dear, I realize that we must not all aspire to high tragedy or classic sublimity. High comedy seems to be more in my line.”
Her father looked at her with his eyes softening more and more. “Come in here,” he said, and closed the door behind them.
“Barbara, my dear,” he began, looking at her over his spectacles, “I have a kind of confession to make to you.”
“Another one!” thought Barbara.
“When you came home last June, things were a little hard for you, and seemed still harder, didn’t they?”
“Well, rather!” said Barbara, slangily.
“Your point of view was young and uncompromising, and—yes—rather toploftical.”
“I know it.”
Her father smiled. “You surveyed the world from a collegiate summit, and found it woefully lacking. Well, so it is lacking, but all the advice from all the lofty heights in the world will never make it better. We must come down into the plain, and struggle with the common herd, and help to raise it by our individual effort; glad to be a living, toiling part of great humanity, like every one else; never the isolated, censorious onlooker who does not share the common lot. This is one of the hardest lessons for youth to learn, and I have watched you learn it, during all these long, hard months.”
“If I only have really learned it!” put in Barbara.
“I have stood aside,” her father continued. “Sometimes I did not help you, even when I might, and you thought me undiscerning or abstracted. Barbara, my dear, you have done it all yourself, and I am very, very proud of my firstborn.”
Barbara crimsoned with pleasure. “I’ve made awfully silly mistakes,” she said, “and you have been so dear and patient.”
She kissed her father gratefully. As she went upstairs, her mind was filled with wonder that she should ever have misunderstood him so completely, and have complacently ascribed to herself intellect and culture and knowledge superior to his. She found herself feeling actually grateful for the events of her life since June.
“What if I had never known his darlingness!” she said.
It was not many hours before Auburn knew of the expected arrival of Mrs. Grafton. Miss Bates had constituted herself an information bureau, and had flitted hither and thither with an alacrity not at all hindered by her rage against the younger Graftons.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, as Barbara was giving capable directions in the kitchen, a knock sounded on the door.
“I just ran in this way,” said Susan, “because I wanted to congratulate you, and to see if you don’t want this chocolate cake for supper. Barbara, what are you laughing at?”
“This is the third cake I have received to-day for mother,” giggled Barbara, “and four chickens are waiting to be consumed. But put it down, Sue dear, and Jack will make a hole in it very soon.”
“Well, anyway,” Susan declared, “it’s because every one loves your mother so much! And it is also because every one recognizes your pluck.”
“Everybody in this whole town is lovely!” answered Barbara.
Susan smiled. But there was no triumph in her face, only joy that her friend had come into her own.
“It is half-past five!” announced Barbara from the window-seat of the living-room. “Father has gone to the train almost an hour ahead of time. Everything in the house is in perfect order; supper is nearly ready; David isn’t tired; and we are all ‘neatly and tastefully attired’ for the occasion. Won’t mother be impressed!”
“Not by Gassy,” answered Jack. “Gassy has a hole in her stocking above her shoe, and I don’t know how many below. Her waist has two buttons missing in the back; still, her hair is somewhat improved, and that’s one comfort.”
“I look as well as you,” retorted Gassy, carrying the work-basket over to her sister. “You have some soot on your face, and I won’t tell you where, and nobody else shall, either.”
“Am I clean?” asked David, plaintively.
“Clean!” exclaimed Jack. “Why, David, you’re as clean as a piece of blank paper, and just as thin. Turn your face to mother when she comes in, for she won’t be able to see you if she catches a glimpse of you sideways.”
“How tiresome you are, Jack!” observed Gassy, condescendingly. “I—”
She was interrupted by a series of bumps and scrapings in the cellar below, followed by a strange wailing moan.
“Hark from the tombs a doleful sound!” cried Jack, rising. “I’ll bet a quarter it’s the Kid.”
It was the Kid. Clad in a clean white sailor suit, and finding time pressing heavily on his hands, he had bethought himself of a gift with which to meet his mother,—none other than one of the new kittens which had been born two weeks before and were now passing their infancy on an old rug at the bottom of a barrel in the cellar. Having made an expedition to the barrel, the Kid had endeavored to gain one of the feline offspring by reaching over into the dark depths, with a logical result of falling headlong into the barrel. The muffled shrieks which the family heard, and the sounds of scraping, were such as would naturally proceed from the attempts of a small boy to rescue himself from an uncomfortable posture. When Jack arrived upon the scene, the Kid had just succeeded in freeing himself by tipping over the barrel and crawling out. Being blinded and confused by the length of time in which he had been standing on his head, he had made a wild dive for the door, and found himself prone on the piles of coal on the cellar floor.
“Well, here’s a mess!” cried Jack, with disgust, picking him up and dragging him along to the upper regions. “Look at this, Barbara; and there are only ten minutes to change his clothes.”
Barbara hurried the little boy upstairs without a word of reproach. She washed him quickly, and was struggling with a stiff new linen suit, when the sound of a carriage came to her ears.
“I love you, Barbara, for changing me,” the Kid said humbly.
She kissed him affectionately. “Now your tie,—there!”
The carriage had stopped. She heard Jack’s excited voice downstairs. The Kid made a desperate wriggle from her and fled down the steps, shouting for his mother. Barbara felt a sudden pang as he left her,—a pang of loneliness and desertion. She stood still a moment, and then, almost before she had time to move, a quick step sounded on the stairs, a new, fresh mother came swiftly into the room, and two strong, firm arms held her close.
“Barbara, my brave, splendid daughter!” said the most motherly voice in the world.
Barbara’s reign was over.
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A